


Candor

by Laeviss



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A secret rendezvous turns into an extended meeting when a storm forces Varian and Garrosh to spend the night together. Written for NSFW Prompt Challenge prompt 2: Kiss (Naked).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candor

Garrosh wasn’t sure if it was the thunder outside that shook the walls, or the force of Varian’s thrusts.

Splayed out across a bed too small for his frame— it had been built with goblins in mind, after all— he clutched at the corners of the blanket. His face pushed forward; with every jerk, his tusks threatened to snag on the fabric, and he had to press his cheek against the mattress to avoid it.

But his thoughts, for now, were elsewhere: focused instead on the hand sliding up to grip his hips and on the hair swinging across his back every time Varian leaned down to bite his neck. On the cock pressing inside of him, deeper with every thrust, making his thighs tense and his own shaft twitch beneath him.

Varian stayed silent, but Garrosh made up for it. Out here, in the middle of the Bay of Storms, he didn’t have to worry about being heard. Growling and gasping, he balled his fingers around the sheets, and shot a glance over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Wrynn. Like that—!”

The human smirked. Rolling his hips forward, he earned another moan. Garrosh felt blood rush to his cheeks, but against the mattress, he hardly cared, merely sliding his hand beneath his abdomen and reaching for his own release. Lifting his hips just enough to fit a fist, he wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, and pressed his foreskin up over the head.

But Varian noticed, and his fingers dug into Garrosh’s sides. “Don’t finish early this time.” His warning went largely unheeded, at first, until he scratched his nails from his hips to his ass. The smack that followed— stinging his skin, cracking through the sound of rain with an abrupt ‘ _phwack_ ’— made him tense, moan, and listen. His hand fell away. His ass rose as Varian’s fingers gripped around each cheek and he slammed into another thrust.

Sighing, still shaking, the orc squeezed his eyes closed and focused on the tension building inside him. Every time Varian rocked forward, he pressed against him in all the right ways, as if he knew the shape of him, knew how to lean and how deep to thrust. He may have, after the two years they had spent arranging these meetings. And Garrosh did little to hide his appreciation.

His shoulders tensed. Another cry, muffled but not silenced by the mattress beneath him, escaped his lips, and his nails dug into his palms.

The rain roaring against the roof wasn’t even enough of a distraction. It drowned out the hitches in Varian’s breath—the only sound he made to show his enjoyment— but the force with which he gripped his backside, the erratic rhythm of his hips, made up for his silence. One hand, slick with sweat and the remnants of the lube he’d used to enter, slipped beneath him: tugging his nipple ring, lifting his chest, and finally, wrapping around his neck. His fingers clenched and jerked him back; Garrosh’s jaw fell open, and he let out a gasp.  

“All right?” Varian grunted in Orcish. Even with his neck restrained, he managed a small nod.

“Good.”

The pressure around his neck proved to be the touch needed to push him over the edge. Yielding to the dizziness, he let Varian grip him, making no move to protest or yank away. He trusted him, at least where this was concerned: the king had never made him wary of these meetings, and even took the time to make sure he was comfortable, preparing him and opening him with a patience he’d never expect from an enemy.

It felt strange to say it— but right now saying it was far from his mind. The only sound that left his lips was a strangled one: the human’s name, half-formed, died on his lips.

The grip let up for a moment, and he drew in a breath. Chest heaving, he rocked back, and met Varian’s thrust halfway. And if the human cared, this time, he said nothing; the tightening of his fingers around his hip and his neck could have been a show of either frustration or need. Or both: it wouldn’t be the first time. It was the meeting of aggravation and arousal that drove them together in the first place, that kept them coming back, that forced two honest men to lie. That made Garrosh’s cock throb and leak onto the bed beneath him.

And then the pressure returned, and Garrosh yielded to a breathless haze. He couldn’t think or stop to wonder if Wrynn was enjoying himself: if he was smirking as he watched Garrosh unravel beneath him, or if his own pleasure, too, had robbed his reservations. He could only stare up at the ceiling, swallow beneath Varian’s palm, and watch the fog roll in from the corners of his mind.

Varian rocked back, dragging his cock against his prostate. He thrust again, and his head fell forward, hair tickling his ear, teeth sinking into his shoulder. Pleasure and pain came into focus, and Garrosh’s heart pounded in his head.

And then Varian’s fingers were on him, and he was undone. The grip that had steadied his ass slid around to the front, wrapping around his shaft and rolling along the trail of piercings. Tension building inside him unfurled: in one stroke, then another, Varian drew it out into a splattered mess on the mattress. If not for the hand on his neck he would have fell forward, but instead he merely slumped, shaking and gasping, as the human slammed into a final thrust. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—

 — and in that moment, there was only Varian.

___________________________________________

“There’s no way we can get out tonight.”

The Varian from before— the Varian who had held him and stroked his side, his cock still buried inside him, as Garrosh fought through coughs to catch his breath— was gone, replaced by the same irritated king Garrosh had loathed at first sight. But this was par for the course. With the haze of sex and breathless contentment stripped away, they were left standing before one another, naked, in stark reality: two enemies, doomed to hate, and fight, and ruin.

“They aren’t expecting me until tomorrow.” Their shoulders almost touched as they lingered in the doorway. It, like the bed, was too small, and too long to see out of while waiting in the hovel’s interior. Pressing his hands by his side, Garrosh straightened, and tried to create more space. “Told them I needed a day off.”

“Think they can get by without you?”

Garrosh wasn’t sure how to read the king’s scoff, but he felt his ire starting to rise. If they were going to spend the night together, in a space barely large enough to accommodate one of them, the last thing they needed was to fight. But it was _so hard_ not to rise to the bait. They weren’t exactly given to conversation, not without lust and sneers to spur on their words; Varian always made a point of leaving as soon as they were done, and both of them had always known why.

But there was no leaving now. Not with rain pounding overhead and wind howling through the entrance, whipping against their naked bodies. Resigned, Garrosh balled his hands into fists, and stomped back into the chamber.

He heard the door close behind him, and didn’t even have to look to see the scowl on Varian’s face. “What about you?” He grunted. Still facing away, he sat on the edge of the mattress, then leaned back onto a pillow. Still disheveled, and smelling with the remnants of their sex, the blanket bunched up beneath his feet, forgotten, and kicked away.

But the human seemed intent on salvaging the sheets.

Out of the corner of his eye, Garrosh saw him lean over and scoop it up, pulling it across his lap as soon as it sat down. It seemed strange, given what they had just done. But the Warchief didn’t question it.

“I’m expected in Ashenvale in the morning.” Varian answered, finally, with his back propped against the headboard. His voice sounded strained. Garrosh wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or unease that halted his words, but he looked up, lips pursed together, to offer a singular nod. They both knew why Ashenvale was an uncomfortable topic: a harsh reminder of _just how much_ they needed to hate each other, _just how much_ they were expected to fight.

But Garrosh was tired. Even his grunt lacked conviction. “Tyrande would have us exposed to the elements before parting with her precious trees.”

Varian’s voice sounded equally weary; no bite or snarl crept into his words as he cast a glance in his direction. “They were there first, Garrosh.”

“But we need it more.”

And with that, they both knew the conversation was over: it was as if some agreement, fatigue and a mutual wish to stay civil, stole the words from their tongues. By the time Garrosh spoke again, his tone had evened, and the voice he summoned— soft, honest— was one he used for his allies instead of his foes:

“If the storm breaks, the fog should clear out by mid-morning. It happens a lot up here.”

“Guess they call it the ‘Bay of Storms’ for a reason.”

Garrosh’s eyes widened, and he stared up at Varian, scanning his face for some hint of sarcasm, some jab at his expense lurking beneath his words. But there was nothing: no jeer, no roll of the eyes or curl of the lip, only the twitch of an embarrassed smile playing across his features. He wasn’t used to joking with Varian, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to do. His shoulders tensed. His jaw jutted forward.

But finally, he laughed. Short. Curt. All but lost beneath the roar of rain on the roof. “Heh. Yeah. Guess so.”

And then, another silence set in. It was less uneasy, this time, less full of the fear that they should be fighting or struggling to speak. The rain faded from a torrent to a soft ‘pling,’ almost soothing in the rhythm it drummed out against the tin, and both of them listened. Varian slid down onto the bed, and it wasn’t long before his arm was around Garrosh’s waist. Their legs tangled together to make up for the lack of space. Not having anywhere else to go, Garrosh leaned his head against the crook of Varian’s neck.

Fingers, now dry, slid from his waist to his shoulder: from his shoulder, to his neck, to his ear. Lingering on the bruises forming beneath his jaw, Varian stroked, pressing just enough to draw out an ache, before soothing it with the pad of his thumb. With a sigh, Garrosh looked up, only to find Varian watching him with thoughtful eyes.

“Are we going to keep doing this?”

“I want to.”

It was a non-answer, and they both knew it. But it was the best Garrosh could manage, whispered beneath another sigh, drawn out by fingers exploring his cheek and the fresh tattoos on his jaw. Holding his breath, he kept watching; his bare chest pressed against Varian’s, and his hand, now shaking, came to rest against the slope of his hip.

And before Garrosh could hesitate or scream at himself to stop, they were kissing. Varian’s mouth pressed lightly, almost clumsily, against his, not sure how to account for the difference in size and shape. Tilting his head, he tried to accommodate him, careful not to knock his nose with his tusks. A breath caught in his throat. His eyes slid closed, and everything stopped, as if they were both afraid even the slightest movement would break the kiss and spiral them both into shame.

It was a first, and it was awkward. Varian first bumped against the flat part of his upper lip, before settling on the larger, fuller lip below. Parting his mouth around him, he sucked, then nipped, and it was clear to Garrosh he had no idea what to _do_ with an orc. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, he murmured, and tried to encourage him: stroking, touching, playing with his hair and sliding his hand around to steady his head. Every bump became a learning experience. Every failed attempt became practice.

Feeling Varian’s tongue flick against his skin, he tried to find it. The size difference, here, proved difficult as well, but it didn’t stop them from trying. Caressing the tips together, forcing his own tongue into a point he could nudge between Varian’s lips, he let out a gasp. His fingers tightened in Varian’s messy hair, and he held him, all but melted against him, as mouths and chests rubbed and pressed together.

It could have lasted for seconds or hours. Garrosh lost track of time. But by the time they were done, they had learned the shape of each other’s lips— they could lean together and kiss without bumping, or swearing, or holding their breaths in fear.

And yet, when they separated, it was clear they had crossed a line. Varian’s eyes, wide, searching, a flash of grey in the light, looked down at him, and from the frown that formed on his lips Garrosh knew he was feeling it, too. Not hatred, but affection. Not desperation, but enjoyment.

Garrosh’s heart clenched. And when Varian nuzzled his cheek, he feared, no, _knew_ they would never be able to meet again.


End file.
